


A Hair's Breadth

by SaltyWords (agent4hire22)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon Compliant, Canon Divergent after 10.18, Castiel/Dean Winchester One Shot, First Kiss, First Time, Love Confessions, M/M, Mark of Cain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-16
Updated: 2015-04-16
Packaged: 2018-03-23 04:44:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3754978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent4hire22/pseuds/SaltyWords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's succumbing to the effects of the Mark of Cain. He doesn't think he can hold it at bay anymore, but Cas will do anything to buy a little more time, even if that means telling Dean how he feels.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Hair's Breadth

Dean tugged his sleeve down over the Mark again. He was constantly fidgeting at it. He hated looking at it. Wanted to cover it. But it was too damn hot for long sleeves. Every day. He’d start with his sleeves rolled down, promise himself that they’d stay that way and he would go the whole day without having to see it. Then an hour later he’d be sweating and his arm would be itching, nagging at him to look at it. Pestering him for attention, acknowledgement. Focus.

He was losing himself. He knew that. He could feel it down in the pit of his chest, eating away at his heart like a cage of hungry rats. Gnawing at him, swallowing  him away. His mind. His personality. They were being consumed.

His arm muscles twitched. He felt himself go for the knife in his belt and he caught the desire. Pushed it back to the bottom of his mind. Down to the constantly edging gag reflex where he stored the rest of his shit. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine that they were green. They were going to be green when he opened them. They were going to stay green. They would never be anything other than green. He wasn’t going to open them again and have Sam or Cas pull back, catch their hearts in their mouths, ready their weapons against him.

He felt a bead of sweat roll down his brow. Another dance loosely between his flexed shoulderblades. His breath was caught in his chest. His lungs burning, screaming for air. His heart thrumming in his ears so loudly it was all he could hear. The

_thump_

_thump_

_thump_

_thump._

It was nothing compared to the feeling of the blood in his veins, swelling and volleying through his circulatory system with every deep bass heartbeat.

“Dean. You okay?”

Dean’s eyes flew open and he looked at Sam. Looked at the pinched concern on his face. How his spoon held loosely in his fingertips, his body erect. The way he pulled his elbows off the table.

_Is he recoiling? Are my eyes still green?_

Dean waited. He stared at Sam much longer than was admissible. He waited for Sam to say something else. To tell _him_ if he was still ok.

_Am I still ok, Sammy? I don’t know._

“Dean?”

Sam’s spoon hit the bowl in front of him. Dropped from his fingers. His hands sliding down to the tabletop, ready to help him to his feet. Readying him for a quick exit, or quick attack. Dean wasn’t sure. He felt another bead of sweat play between the tense muscle cords down his back. The Mark howled at his arm. His fingers twitched again just thinking about the knife in his belt. He would have been smarter to be unarmed today. But he didn’t know it was going to be a bad day. Every day was getting progressively worse. He kept eyes on Sam. Fixed and focused. For some reason speaking was too hard. He felt his body shudder.

The rats were escaping. Any moment now his heartbeat would cease. The thrumming blood in his temples would drain to the lower extremities. He would reek of sulfur. His eyes would turn black. He would murder Sam. He would be gone.

A heavy hand fell on his shoulder and Dean gasped in a shaky terrified breath. He blinked, broke the unnerving eye contact and noticed his cereal bowl again. He fingers shook and he dropped his spoon. It rattled against the ceramic, tumbled onto the tabletop. Dean’s breath left his chest willingly, like a herd of wild horses.  He clasped his hands together and looked over at Cas. 

It was Cas’ hand on his shoulder.

_Fuck! What just happened?_

The Mark growled on his arm like a dormant volcano, sputtering smoke and ash and burps of lava. It was just a good showreel right now. But the earth was about to crack. He could feel the venom of it just under the surface of his skin. Just at his fingertips, waiting impatiently for his psyche to be fully consumed.

“Are you alright?” Cas’ voice was measured and quiet. He asked the question, but he didn’t seek an answer. Not really. He already knew it. 

Maybe he could see speckles of black in the depths of Dean’s eyes. Maybe he could smell the acrid stench of vitriol under his skin.

“Y--yeah,” Dean finally managed as he clenched and unclenched his fists a few times. He was gone far too long to make a joke of it. Far too long for either of them to pretend they didn’t notice. It was like a grand mal seizure. Just gotta hang on for the ride and deal with the aftermath. “Yeah, I’m good.”

_Good_ was relative, of course. Dean was not good. He couldn’t even pretend like he was. Sam pushed his bowl away. Stole a glance at Cas. Dean didn’t dare look at either of them. It was the end of the road. He knew it. They knew it. Cas’ hand didn’t move. Dean was glad for it. The warmth of it. The steady grip on his deltoid. It was grounding. Reassuring. He almost wished he would just get a shot of angel fury right then. Shut him down for good. It would be over. He wouldn’t have to worry about controlling himself every second anymore. He wouldn’t have to keep cramming the murderous impulses down like a binge-eater in a free buffet. It would be heaven.

But there was still so much he wanted to do. He didn’t want to die. Not yet. 

Cas squeezed his shoulder. A quick reminder that he was still there. Still standing next to him. 

Dean’s eyes hit his lap. He tugged again at the sleeve. He wanted to unroll the flannel. Cover it. He wanted to hack away the skin and bone. Then there would be nothing to cover at all. He’d rather not have an arm. He didn’t need it anymore. He’d do anything to keep his family safe. He wouldn’t be the one to kill them.

_Never._

“Did you eat anything?” Sam was grasping at straws. There was nothing to talk about but the bloated, red, throbbing, elephant in the room, and he didn’t know how to address it. There wasn’t anything to say.

_You’ll be okay, Dean. We’ll find a cure. Don’t lose hope. You’re strong enough._

Yeah. He could say it all again. But he wouldn’t be convincing anyone. Certainly not Dean. Probably not even himself.

“Yeah,” Dean said. He pushed the full bowl of soggy cornflakes away, listened to the dull drag of the ceramic on the wooden tabletop. He wasn’t hungry. He hadn’t eaten for a day or two now. Food wasn’t important. He could pretend. He could hoark it down like he’d been doing for months. But it all tasted like trash. Like he was shovelling hot garbage into his mouth day after day. It was probably what it felt like to be kept artificially alive. The desire was lost. The intention was muddied somewhere between love and self-deception.

_Gotta keep my strength up. Gotta make sure I’m eating cuz it’s normal. Gotta pretend for Sammy._

Sam hooked a finger on the edge of Dean’s bowl, pulled it toward him and stacked it on top of his. He cleared his throat. Didn’t need to steal another glance with Cas because they didn’t have to look at each other anymore, their thoughts were already synced. 

He pushed out his chair, stood in a stooped, ragged way. The way a child stands when they’re told to go to their room after getting caught thieving cookies.

“Oh, hey.” Dean reached a trembling hand to his belt, pulled out the knife. Fought the lustful shake in his hand, and slid it across the table. The clean blade edge caught in the dim lamplight. Dean could taste the ting of metallic   _A positive--O negative--AB--_ in the back of his throat. The bloating desire to see the clean edge dirtied by someone’s insides.  He closed his eyes again. Blinked it away. Slid his hand back to his lap slowly. “Better take this with you.”

Castiel’s hand stayed on his shoulder. He didn’t move. It didn’t shake. Solid and sturdy. Dean assumed he was playing guard dog. Watching over Sam. Making sure the wolf didn’t spring from over the fence and get one of his sheep. Dean was thankful for it. He would never stop being thankful for it. But he was afraid. Cas was in just as much danger. How could he just stand there so certain? Shouldn’t he be running away too?

Sam looked back at him. His eyes were soft, his expression, hurt. He pecked the blade handle between loose fingers and belted it before turning toward the kitchen with the bowls.

It was only 7:30 in the morning.

Dean hadn’t slept. He couldn’t anymore. He was afraid he wouldn’t wake up again. The demon would take over. So he sat in his room. He drank the whiskey, the beer, the malt scotch. He chased it with coffee, energy drinks, caffeine pills. An amphetamine from time to time.

_Shouldn’t bring too many drugs to the party_.

_But, just enough and everything went smooth_.

Cas sat down next to him, turning the chair to face him rather than sit alongside. The two of them alone in the great room. Lamplight brightening Cas’ face. Catching the blue of his eyes and lighting them on fire. It was then that his hand moved. It slid down Dean’s arm, down to his elbow, and he clutched him there lightly. “You’re not well, my friend.” Again, his voice measured and quiet.

Dean wanted to grab his hand. Lace their fingers together. Hug him. Tell him he was sorry. He loved him. But it was time.

_Please, Cas. It’s time to put me down. I can’t  hold it any more. Have mercy on me._

He looked back at him instead, quiet. He hoped his eyes would do the talking. But all they seemed to do was scream. Cas swallowed hard. He leaned forward and grabbed Dean’s other hand. He turned his arm over. Looked at the Mark, put his palm over it and closed his eyes.

Maybe he was doing something angely. Letting the energy talk to him since Dean couldn’t muster a coherent sentence these days. Maybe he was aligning the stars, thinking in colors, summoning the power of the holy ghost. Whatever raindance he could fib about Dean’s situation. Instead, he breathed out shakily and locked Dean’s gaze. Tears bordering his eyes. His brow folded up in sweet creased lines, his tongue flicking nervously at his lips.

“I’m not sure how to begin this,” he said.

Dean looked back at him and thought about how far he’d come. The righteous angel of the lord who walked through those barn doors six years before was now a sentimental, nervous _man_ next to him. He was still an angel, of course. But he’d never really gone back to it after his grace was stolen. His humanistic behaviorisms had stuck. Like Crowley after the love-injections, the holes in Cas were filled with humanity, and the angel grace couldn’t push it out.

“It’s time,” Dean said.

Cas’ eyes dodged, surprised when Dean spoke. “What?”

“Smite me, or throw me into the sun. Either one. Or both.”

Cas shook his head, his brow furrowed. “No, that’s not--”

“I can’t anymore, Cas.”

Cas’ hand tightened over the Mark. Like he was trying to snuff it out. Like if he was good enough at covering it, then it wouldn’t hear him. But the mark only manifested on Dean’s arm. It could hear through him now. It was always listening, whispering to him.

“I know it’s hard. You’re an extremely powerful man, Dean.”

“Dangerous.”

“No, not you with the Mark. You. Your soul. The strength you employ now, when this curse has you bound so tightly. It is amazing to see. It’s more powerful, more beautiful, than anything  a creature of heaven could do. Your strength of will is rivaled by no one. Certainly not any angel of heaven or demon of hell. Not God. Not Death.”

Dean tried to scoff. Tried to call Cas out on his crap. It must be crap. Dean couldn’t hold his shit together anymore. He had the strength of a toddler. He had the will of a dead cat. But the way Cas looked at him, looked into him, he was thrown back to that barn the day they’d met. The electricity and sparks popping around him. That ominous, powerful gaze of the stranger on the other end of his knife. If he could barely find his voice then, how was he supposed to now? Now that he loved that stranger. And now that he wasn’t a stranger any longer.

“I love you, Dean.”

Cas’ words echoed the ones in Dean’s head and he had to double take to make sure they were real.

“I don’t know what you’d like to do with that information, but I want you to know, I do.”

Of course, love. Family love. The word held a great weight, but it meant a lot of things to different people, and although Dean was emotionally impotent and couldn’t say it, that didn’t mean everyone else was the same.

Though, he’d never heard Cas say it before. 

“Uh, thank you, Cas,” he said. His voice gruff and unsteady in the face of touchy-feelies. Any threat of inner focus, self-realization or honesty always had him on the rocks. He watched the hurt crawl over Castiel’s face and his jaw clapped shut. 

Not family love.

_Love_ love?

Did Cas _love_ love him?

Castiel’s eyes fell away from Dean’s but his grip over the Mark didn’t loosen. His hands didn’t falter, and his body didn’t betray him for the jab he’d just had to his heart. “I hope,” he said after a beat. “That it might help you find a little more strength. Bide a little more time, while we keep looking.” He glanced up again. Met Dean’s eyes. The concern in his face was peppered with pain now. “Sam and I… _I’m_ not ready to lose you yet.”

“I don’t know what to do with that, Cas.” Dean said amid a shuddering breath in his chest. He just wanted to cry, but he strained to keep himself from breaking. “I’m not… I’m not good, man. Far from it. But, I’d be lying if I didn’t say that I--” He hid his face in his hand, fought the ingrained deflection. “I love you too. I have… for a very long time. You’re my family.”

He laid a hand over Cas’. Made a small mound over the Mark on his arm as if the barrier of hands would fence off the evil. Maybe it was. This was the most quiet the Mark had been in nearly forever. Dean almost felt normal. Almost.

“But, I gotta know,” he persisted. “What’s love mean to you?”

Cas looked away. Looked down. Struggled. “Dean,” he said.

Dean didn’t understand.

Cas searched him, and looked down again. “You,” he repeated frustrated. “and Sam. I would do anything for you. I would rebell from my home. I would kill. I would die. I have done all of those things. I’ve done more. All I want is to be with you. You’re my family as well. You’re all I have.” 

Dean forced a smile. He squeezed Cas’ hand. Dean understood. Cas didn’t mean _love_ love, as Dean was defining it in his mind. He meant family love. Devotion. Loyalty. All the important things Dean had been reciting to him for years. All the things Dean had been emulating from his father. But even though Cas was a human for a short time, how would he have come to know that other kind of love if it was never shown to him. Never given to him like it should have been. Like Dean wanted to, if he could go back and tell Gadreel to shove it. He neglected to think about how he understood love, even though he’d never really had it. It was too easy to consider Cas incapable rather than inexperienced. 

Dean felt a sob in the back of his throat and he swallowed. The Mark was surprisingly quiet under Cas’ touch. He didn’t know what to say. He said nothing. He only looked back at his long time friend and his words from the confessional vibrated in his mind. Cas had been who he was thinking of when he spoke to the Father. But, how could he pull him into this? How could he say anything when he was a hair’s breadth from death? What would he ruin if he told Cas he loved him differently?

It was Cas’ expression that turned him. The way he sat next to Dean, facing him, with the most dejected and sad eyes he’d ever seen, worse now than the reaction he’d gotten when Dean had asked him to leave the bunker. Yet, there he still was. Still sitting there next to Dean. Like always, holding onto him. Trying his damndest to save him, if even for a moment. And Dean understood. Because he was loyal.

Dean felt the Mark itch at him and he started to slide his hand off of Cas’. 

Cas caught it with his other. Looked desperately at him. Dug for the right words, stumbled as his eyes bounced between Dean’s. “You don’t understand,” he said. “I’m not being clear.”

“No, I get it,” he nodded. “It’s--I do understand. And I don’t know what I’d done without you. Not gotten this far, that’s for sure. Thank you, man. Sincerly. There aren’t words.” He patted Cas’ arm, let his hand linger a moment against the divot of muscle in his tricep and let it slide down. “I appreciate knowin’ you’ve got my back.

“No,” Cas persisted. “I don’t love you--I do, but, what I mean is I am also _in love_ with you,” he said. His eyes squeezed shut and he frantically bit the insides of his cheeks. “Romantically,” he added quietly. 

Dean’s brow knit and he looked back at him. Fear and excitement and bitter sadness plumed in his chest, mixing together like a cocktail of miss-timed meet-cutes and shitty circumstances. 

“You’re… you…” Try as he might, Dean couldn’t think of anything to ask. He felt like he should be asking something right now.

_How long have you loved me?_

_What does that mean, you’re in love with me?_

_Are you sure you’re not just scared?_

That last one. The others weren’t important, but that last one seemed important.

“Are--are you sure?” Dean managed.

The corners of Castiel’s eyes crinkled as a smile broke his lips, tore through his face. “Yes,” he said. Simple and soft, the answer puffed out of him, like it was the easiest question in the universe to answer. Like it should have been so obvious. Like it was already written on his face, or in his eyes for years.

And Dean knew it had been.

It was then that Dean really understood the angel sitting in front of him. The person he’d called a friend for so long, family, even. Castiel would have gone Dean’s whole life without saying anything, never mentioning a word of his feelings. Because he knew the answer he would have gotten from this emotionally stunted thirty-six year old. But, as usual, Cas was putting himself to the side. Fighting for Dean, looking out for Dean’s best interests. Because Dean could always count on him to do whatever needed to be done to save him. He would go to Hell and fish out his soul. He would face off against Lucifer and his home. He would throw his heart under the bus at just the off chance that telling Dean would give Dean a little more strength to continue.

That idea destroyed him. Dean’s breath caught in his chest, tears broke the rims of his eyes and he hugged Cas viciously, both arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders. A sob escaped him and he tried to bite it back. He pulled back, looked at Cas, really looked at him, eyes dancing between Castiel’s, flicking down to his lips and back up again nervously. His heart plodded so high in his chest he was sure it was literally in his throat. He fished his fingers through Cas’ hair, grabbed the back of his head in his palm and drew close. Their noses touching, their eyelashes brushing each other’s cheeks.  They hadn’t had their faces so close since they’d first met and Dean had explained to him what personal space meant. He looked at Cas’ lips and licked his own. They were both oddly silent, both holding their breath. And Dean closed the space. Their lips meeting softly together, a small peck, barely brushing before Dean pulled back to see if that had been the right move, or if he’d just gotten carried away. 

Dean’s arm suddenly burned hot. Not with mitigated rage like he was used to, but bright white burning, like putting his hand on a electric stovetop. He jerked back and yelped. Cas quickly let go of Dean’s arm and saw that he’d left a handprint over the mark, burning his palm and fingers across it. The redness of the Mark was dulled by the pinked white setting scar. The pain quickly subsided and rolled out to a delicate warmth in his skin.

“I’m sorry,” Cas said. He moved two fingers quickly to Dean’s arm poised to heal it. Dean stopped him, grabbed his hand.

“Cas, how’d I get the first one? The one on my shoulder?”

Castiel swallowed hard. “By accident.”

“Accident. Like this one, accident?”

Castiel’s eyes fell away. His jaw wobbled as it collected a million tiny words, answers, or lies, and just as quickly cast them aside. His face flushed red.

“Castiel. Angel-of-fucking-Heaven,” Dean said quickly. “You did not come to this earth to gain humility and shame. Don’t clam up on me now.” Cas looked back at Dean and chewed his lip. “Have we kissed before?”

“Yes.”

“When? After hell?”

He nodded.

“And you didn’t tell me?”

Cas didn’t try to hide the incredulity from his face. “Uh, no, Dean. I didn’t tell you. It doesn’t really seem that outlandish, does it? Or am I remembering our situation incorrectly?”

“Ok, so tell me now. Cuz, I ain’t gonna lie, I don’t feel like you’ve been very honest with me.”

“It’s a brand, of sorts. It happens when a human is claimed by and angel. Remember, like I told you with the souls and Balthazar?” He rolled his eyes up and away. “I’m not claiming you,” he added quickly. “It just happens when we… match. I can heal it. Like I did the one before.”

Dean nodded, set his jaw. “And does it come back?”

“Only If we--uh, match again.”

“You mean kiss?”

“Yes.”

“Every time?”

Castiel looked at Dean with surprise.

“Every time we kiss? Or what?” Dean repeated.

Cas shook his head. “No. Once the print is established, it only happens once, I believe.”

“So you don’t know?”

“I don’t understand,” Cas cut. “I can’t tell if you’re angry or interested.”

Dean sucked his lips against his teeth and nodded. Considered Cas. Thought for a few moments. “It can’t be both?” he asked.

“They aren’t mutually exclusive emotions, I suppose.”

“So we didn’t have like a whole _thing_ back in Hell you never told me about. It was just one kiss?”

“Yes, Dean. Then you were resurrected and you didn’t remember. But I loved you. Even then. I wasn’t sure what it was like I am now, but I knew it was something far greater than I’d ever experienced. So I stayed. What happened in Hell is no longer relevant anyway. What we’ve built now is so much more.”

“Yeah, except now the bartender’s yelling last call and I can’t find my fucking glass. Might’ve said something sooner.”

“And you would have been receptive to it?”

Dean knew what he was asking. That he was telling him he was full of shit. He _was_ full of shit. Cas never had a decent opportunity to break the great stone walls of Dean’s heart. He would have just bounced back off bloody and broken if he’d tried, back where he started. Dean wouldn’t deny it. He was far enough away to see it now. He might have loved Cas for a long time. Dreamt about him. Pined for him. But he was too self-sabotaging to have ever accepted anything from him.

“I will find a cure, Dean,” Cas said, his jaw set and strong. “Something. Anything to keep it at bay. I swear to you I’m looking. Everywhere.”

Dean pawed a hand at Cas’ tie. He ran his palm over it, gripped the flat sides of it, pulled the knot at the top loose. Twisted it around so it hung backwards, undid his top button. He fingered the linen fabric, thought of the time at the police station when he’d done the opposite: straightened his tie, buttoned him up, given him a police badge. Now he wanted to undo it. As if he could fix something. Make Cas whole again. He felt in that moment like he’d broken him. He’d taken something from him a long time ago and led him around by his nose ever since.

_Fuck it_. Dean pulled on Castiel’s tie, dragged his face over to him and he kissed him hard. He braced himself for another searing hot burn in case Cas was wrong, but it didn’t come. Dean grabbed his head, both hands and breathed him in, licking their tongues together, feeling the brush of his whiskers with Dean’s. His soft, full lips. And Cas’ hands came to him on his chest, to his sides, up the cords of muscle on his back. They melted into each other, pulling back only to gasp for breath. 

Dean caught Cas’ eye, thought for a brief moment that it would be awkward, then they would suddenly feel like they’d made a mistake, but instead a spark of electricity fired in him like a lightning bolt. He moaned and kissed Cas harder, working his tongue around his mouth, feeling Cas’ body roll up against his. 

“I’m sorry,” Dean whispered. “I never--”

“Shut up, Dean.”

Dean raked his fingers through Cas’ hair, envisioned grabbing it, pulling his head back, nipping his neck, but he wasn’t sure how far to go. Cas wasn’t all that experienced. 

But he smelled amazing. Like rain and oak and fresh linen. The musty leather of the Impala seats clung to his coat. And he smelled of Dean’s soap, for some reason, and that worked Dean up.

“Been sneaking showers, Cas?” Dean asked against him breathlessly.

“I enjoy the water pressure,” he said with a smile in his voice.

“Been using my soap?” Dean tilted Cas’ head, licked his neck.

“I don’t have any. I’m an angel.” Castiel’s body rolled up against him and he moaned.

“Didn’t want to use Sam’s?”

“You might have done anything to that. I didn’t want to take the chance.”

“Wise man.”

Dean pulled at his tie. Slipped the tail from the knot and threw it to the floor. Cas grabbed at Dean’s overshirt, pulled it off of him. Dean ran his rough hands down the sides of his neck, felt the way his throat bobbed against his palm when he swallowed, whimpered.

It occurred to Dean then. He wasn’t having any violent thoughts. Only lustful. Only Cas. All Cas. There wasn’t a moment in the past couple of weeks that he’d gone without thinking about blood. Blood on his hands, on his body. In his mouth. Those thoughts seemed so far away, almost fuzzy. He hummed happily into the side of Cas’ neck. Kissed along his jaw as he fumbled at the buttons on Cas’ dress shirt. He hadn’t realized how hard it was, to quickly undo a dress shirt on someone else. He thought about just ripping the buttons open, but it seemed desperate--

_I am fucking desperate for it--_

but, Cas only had the one shirt, and he didn’t want to ruin it.

Two, three buttons…

_Fuck, I’ll give him one of mine!_

Cas laughed. It rumbled in his chest. “Trouble?” he asked.

“Yes! Who makes these, Satan?”

Cas’ hands slipped under Dean’s shirt and skirted along his belly, pausing a moment to pluck at his belt before continuing on, sliding over his sides and up the curve of his lower back.

He seemed to be keeping up just fine. Experienced or not, Cas’ hands knew what they wanted.

Dean felt Cas hard against his leg and he rubbed against him, lost focus on the buttons and reached a hand down to Cas’ pants to grope him. Cas moaned into him and sucked at his neck.

“Just let me know if you wanna stop,” Dean whispered. “If I’m going too fast.”

“Is that a joke?” Cas laughed and nipped Dean’s neck. “Yes, okay. I’ll do that.”

It was Dean’s turn to chuckle. He pulled back, sly smile on his face. “Was that sarcasm? Without the finger quotes and everything? You’ve come a long way, doll!”

Cas kissed him, pawed at Dean’s belt, deftly undid it and let the loose ends flap from Dean’s belt loops. He plucked Deans button and slid the zipper down slipping his hand inside. Dean moaned against Cas’ fingers, kissed him hard on the mouth again, panted, pulled Cas’ shirt from where it was tucked in his pants. “Yeah, okay,” he whispered. “You’re wearing too much.”

“Want me to take off the coat?”

“No, keep it on.” Dean probably wouldn’t say anything, but he might have a little fetish for the damn thing.

He fumbled at Cas’ belt, his fingers shaking and excited. Slipping one hand down over Cas’ dick, rubbing the heel of it over the tight fabric.

“Dean?”

Dean hummed into him. Popped the button on Cas’ suit pants.“What? You wanna stop? Too fast?”

“No--” Cas licked against his tongue, wrapped his hand around Dean’s cock and rolled it down once before letting go, and petting it again. “But, we’re still in the greatroom.”

“Yeah we are,” Dean quaffed with an ear to ear smile. He bit Cas’ neck. Let the taste of Cas’ salty skin  commit to memory. Then he suddenly realized what Cas was saying. “Wait, shit.” 

He stole a wide-eyed glance at the doorway, leaned back and forth to see around the hall. “We’re still in the middle of the bunker.”

Cas nodded. “Sam’s home. I assume you wouldn’t want… ”

“Uh, fuck,” Dean agreed. “It wouldn’t be the first time he’d walked in on me. But it might be the most traumatic.” Dean sighed, pecked another kiss on Cas’ mouth. Relented, “Fucking cock-block.” 

They pulled apart and looked at each other. Dean reached a hand up and combed Cas’ hair down, before tucking himself back in and zipping up his pants. “To be continued?” he asked. His eyebrows raising with his smile.

Cas tucked his shirt back into his pants, but stopped a moment, his face settling into a familiar squint. “You’re smiling,” he said. “It’s so good to see that smile.”

“I feel good, actually.” Dean ran a steady hand over his chest, absently straightening out his shirt, tracing the ghost feeling of Cas’ hands against him. “Maybe you’re my cure.”

He leaned forward, put his hand softly along Cas’ face and gently kissed him, drinking him in. “Thank you,” he said.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
